


Black Dragon Ascendant.

by Daemon_Belaerys



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex (probably), Blood, Canon Typical Violence, Catelyn Tully dislike, Death of Characters, Explicit Sexual Content, F/F, F/M, Incest -deal with it, M/M, Oral Sex (definately), R plus L equals J, Ruthless Bloodraven, Sex, The usual GoT/ASoIaF warnings obviously, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-15
Updated: 2017-09-17
Packaged: 2018-12-30 01:19:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,167
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12097572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Daemon_Belaerys/pseuds/Daemon_Belaerys
Summary: Varys adds two and two together when Ned returns to King's Landing after the Tower of Joy and immediately hatches plans.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Avery_Fontaine](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Avery_Fontaine/gifts).



> A re-write of my FFN fic 'Dragon in Wolf's Clothing' though only just in that I will be borrowing a few of the concepts in that story into this one.

**Disclaimer: There was supposed to be a disclaimer right about here, yet it sadly went down during a storm in Shipbreaker Bay.**

 

 

**Black Dragon Ascendant.**

 

**The Spider:**

 

It did not take Varys long to realize the truth. In fact he realized the truth the moment he first laid eyes on the babe that Lord Eddard Stark had brought with him as he stopped at King’s Landing to give Robert Baratheon the news about the death of his ‘beloved’. While Robert bawled over the coffin holding his ‘beloveds’ bones, while Tywin Lannister let out the tiniest triumphant smile and Jon Arryn held a comforting hand on Eddard Stark’s shoulders, Varys watched and learned.

 

While some muttered the name ‘Ashara Dayne,’ Ser Barristan no doubt due to the brokenness of the voice, Eddard Stark stood silent and unmovable as a block of ice. If only his eyes and face could not lie as well as the northern Lord thought.

 

Varys could, and did spot the subtle signs. The mix of fury and revulsion whenever his cool grey eyes laid eyes on the babe that was sleeping in Howland Reed’s arms told more than a thousand words ever could. Fury at Lyanna Stark for running away, revulsion for what her small rebellion had led to, something that, no matter how good a man Lord Stark was he would no doubt take out on his ‘bastard’. He had already started by claiming the boy as his own bastard, far better, and more believable too had he proclaimed it his elder brother’s instead.

 

Nor was he willing to indulge anyone as to who the mother was, any man with a small measure of wits should realize it almost instantly, and yet everyone seemed to make the wrong conclusion. They saw the silken black tresses and dark indigo eyes and instantly thought of Ashara Dayne, all of them seeming to forget that Ashara’s eyes had been more lilac than indigo.  Any man who knew his sums, which meant that three quarters of the Lords of the Realm had to be excluded should be able to add up simple numbers. Lyanna Stark disappeared a little over a year ago, and then Eddard Stark returns from Dorne, where he found Lyanna dead, guarded by three Kingsguard, and of course he returned with a bastard son as well, and yet he was the only one to see the truth. He almost tittered, but managed to hold his tongue.

 

Lord Stark’s stay in the capital was short. Just short enough to witness the marriage of King Robert to Cersei Lannister. Up to that point Varys had still been uncertain whether he should tell the King about the boy or not. Yet less than a week of sharing space in the same  _ city _ as Cersei Lannister, and also seeing just how much interest Robert had for the good of the Realm, or even the very basics of ruling had Varys come to his decision.

 

He would keep mum about the boy. Keep him safe, and under close watch, he did after all have little birds everywhere, even in the North, and it was a simple matter to acquire more birds. He had many plans, many ideas. His good friend Illyrio had his own schemes he knew, he himself had remained loyal to Illyrio for years after he left him behind to come into Aerys’ service, and though Varys’ loyalty now was to the Realm first, he never forgot his old friend in Pentos.

 

His main priority at the moment of course was to ensure that Rhaella and Viserys escaped Robert’s ‘justice’, a task Stannis was already preparing for. He would do his best to ensure that Viserys remained a viable option for the future prosperity of the Realm, but he had his doubts. While not as familiar with the current Princ eof Dragonstone as he liked, he knew the boy was somewhat unstable, a result of his father taking a far too active hand in his rearing, far better to have another option, and ‘Jon Snow’ was that option. There was also the child of Illyrio across the sea, if the babe survived the birth of course, Varys had not spoken to Illyrio for near a year due to the rebellion and was unaware of whether Illyrio’s wife had given birth to a healthy babe or not, or even the sex of the babe for that matter. At the very least a Blackfyre raised to be the best King possible was better than Robert whose sole ambition now seemed to drink or fuck himself to death, and if it was a boy with the right features it should even be possible to play him off as Prince Aegon, thereby securing the Martells.

 

Another month removed that option from the shelves at least. Illyrio had indeed been gifted with a babe, though his wife Serra died in the birthing bed. But the gender was wrong. Oh the girl had all the right features, a proper Valyrian beauty, but the lack of a cock swiftly removed the chance to play the pretender, so Varys now had to put even more of a focus on Jon Snow and Viserys.

 

He arranged for the escape of Viserys and his newborn sister Daenerys, just in the nick of time too. Rhaella had been so stubborn, and distrusting. Refusing to take his offer of sanctuary across the sea to the last, so it was truly fortunate, and unfortunate at the same time that she died on the birthing bed. It allowed Ser Willem Darry to spirit the two Targaryen children across the sea, but removed any chance of having Rhaella, a smart and kind woman put any influence on Viserys,  so Varys removed them from the equation the moment the Queen died. 

 

Oh sure he would protect the both of them. They both served as a viable distraction to Robert. And a symbol to the multitudes of nobles and commoners alike who kept up hope for a Targaryen restoration. So while he always kept an eye on the two Targaryens in Braavos he was spending most of his time unravelling as much as he could about Jon Snow.

 

He had searched high and low, in many cases even speaking with various parties in person. There were good news and bad. The boy was Rhaegar’s, as if there ever was any doubt. But the legitimacy was another matter. Rhaegar had indeed attempted to make a deal with High Septon Maynard for an annulment but was rebuffed. Rhaegar already had two children by his lawful wife, and Elia’s incapability to have more children was not a good enough reason to grant an annulment.

 

A shame really, as Varys birds were giving him regular reports on the young Targaryen bastard. The first of his new northern birds was a young woman who managed to endear herself to Jon’s wetnurse. A second was a young kitchen maid, the third, which was Varys’ crowning achievement was Septa Mordane herself. A strict and pious woman who swiftly agreed to keep Varys informed, in return for some generous donations to the Faith. All in the name of the  C rown and High Septon himself who was concerned about a bastard so close in age to the trueborn heir of Winterfell, especially if the child was raised to believe in the ‘heathen’ and ‘barbaric’ ways of the northmen,  or so she thought at any rate .

 

That Septa Mordane took this as a sign of divine intervention to take the young boy under her wing to keep him on the ‘true’ path Varys would never have guessed. The woman, so fond of speaking of her faith, and decrying the sinful nature of bastards was doing her best to treat the boy kindly and impress upon him the need to ‘save his soul’ by earning a Knighthood. Varys could have kissed the woman if ever he met her again.

 

The young child, treated with mistrust or outright scorn by so many, his stepmother included, latched onto the Septa with both arms, far easier than even his own ‘father’ who no doubt loved the child, but no one had ever accused Eddard Stark of being warm. And though his reports stated that Catelyn Tully wasn’t at all inclined to change her attitude, the Lady of Winterfell did agree with her Septa’s advice of doing their very best to turn Snow onto the path of Knighthood.

 

There was a brief scare when the boy was five. He came down heavily with a pox, and for near two weeks Varys fretted as he waited for news. Fortunately the boy endured the pox, though not without change. Where before the boy had been for the most part happy and vigorous, keeping the serfs at Winterfell on their toes alongside his trueborn cousin, the boy was far more reserved.

 

He suffered repeatedly from strange night terrors, mumbling in his sleep about wings and fire, and spoke sometimes of battles from long ago. Whether it was due to his now somewhat reserved nature or perhaps by an inborn caution the boy shared his dreams only with the Septa, who spoke often to him of how it may be a sign from the Warrior himself, that he would one day become a great Knight, mayhap even a general in the King’s armies. For certain it must be so, the dreams of fire and dragons had to be a warning sign that the Targaryen’s would return to fight for Westeros she told the boy,  and the boy lapped it up.

 

Not even six years old was he before he implored his ‘father’ and Winterfell’s Master of Arms, Ser Rodrick to train him in arms, and though reluctant to start his training so young, Lord Stark did acquiesce to Snow’s pleads. Mayhap Lord Stark knew that the bastard would have a much tougher life than any of his trueborn children, and that Knighthood was his best chance, or mayhap the boy’s enthralling indigo gaze swayed him.

 

Jon Snow was such a contradicting person, especially for one so young. Calm and quiet. Caring of his younger siblings. Devoted in his studies, eagerly learning his sums and letters from Maester Luwin, but reserved. Always so reserved. Rarely did the boy smile, Varys was told, and he often shunned the company of others, preferring the silence of the small Sept in Winterfell or seeking solitude in the broken tower with either a book or exercising his increasing skills with the harp.

 

But the thing that concerned Varys the most was the reports he got about Jon Snow in the training ring. That the boy had an aptitude for the sword was clear early on in his training, receiving praise more often than not from Ser Rodrick, but there were…  _ incidents _ . Sometimes, most regularly after a particular bad night of dreams the boy turned into a monster when a sword was placed in his hand. Fighting with speed, strength and skill he should not possess, backed up by an almost primal fury, such that many men in Winterfell who had seen one of these incidents remarked that Snow fought like a cornered man fighting for his life.

 

Nor was Varys pleased at how the boy seemed to embrace the Seven. A little faith harmed no one it was true. But if Snow was to have any use it would require a warrior. An Aegon the Conqueror or Daeron the Young Dragon, not a Jaeherys the Conciliator or Baelor the Blessed, and it was not as if he could tell the Septa who was his best source of information to cease her efforts either. No, Varys decided to himself, the boy would have to be taken off her hands and given to someone more capable.

 

His education would be increased. He would learn languages, arts and music, history and strategy, and lastly, a far better fighter and instructor than Ser Rodrick would be found for the boy, and when the boy was nine the perfect opportunity arose.  Balon Greyjoy rose in rebellion, creating a great deal of chaos and confusion as Ned Stark marched south with his hosts. Just who was in charge was amongst many somewhat in question. Was it Lady Stark who was with child once more in Winterfell? Or was it mayhap Lord Wyman Manderly was was charged with the defence of the North should any Ironborn think of making a few raids while the greater part of the North’s strength was in the south.

 

Tho whom should a message be sent if something went amiss, and how should a message be sent in the first place? By speedy raven or by trusted courier. All of these were vital questions that could spell doom or success for Varys, for he knew that in this case he would have to take action in person. Fortunately Varys was a consummate mummer, good at both disguise and lie, and there was the fact that Septa Mordane had never once seen him in person, so that is why he dressed himself in a Septon’s robes, false hair and beard and rode to Winterfell in the company of three ‘acolytes’ clad in roughspun brown wool.

 

Varys swallowed slightly as he passed through the massive gates of Winterfell. The grand castle, one of the oldest and strongest in the Realm possessed a wild but majestic beauty, and though not a military man, Varys could appreciate the strength it held at any rate. To try and take the castle in a storm would be difficult indeed, and costly in lives as well.

 

“Halt,” a leather clad guard who looked more like a fat septon than a guard and wielding a spear stopped them from entering the castle proper. “State your business here in Winterfell.”

 

Varys shifted slightly atop his palfrey, closing his fur cloak tighter around himself. “Septon Medger,” he introduced himself while deepening his voice as best he could for a eunuch.

 

The guard frowned. “Don’t get a lot’a them septons up ‘ere, so best fook off.”

 

His compatriot, a young stick thin reed of a boy, proudly displaying his first three chin hairs smacked his fatter compatriot at the back of the head. “You dun’ speak to a ‘oly man like tha’ you fat fook,” the young man widened his gaze in fear as he realized what he said. “Beggin’ yer parden, we don’ offen get ‘oly men up ‘dese parts, Only ol’ Septa Mordane,”

 

After a moment of deciphering the rough accents Varys smiled, as much as his false beard would allow. “We are all the father’s children son,” he said as he patted his fat belly, though plump, Varys had added a fat pillow as well underneath his robe to sell the deception. “And we all falter. Now if one of you could lead me and my assistants to this Septa Mordane perhaps we can all put this brief moment of unpleasantness behind us yes?”

 

Varys almost sighed as the two began bowing and scraping… and almost proceeded to start a fistfight with each other, which was averted at the very last minute as the fatter one of them threatened to put his fist in the other’s face as hard as he could.  Across the yard and underneath an arch in one of the inner walls and they stood before the small sept that Lord Eddard bad raised for his wife, and as Varys suspected Jon Snow was there, entertaining a small gaggle of children, ranging from the very young still in swaddling clothes and their mothers or caretakers, to older rosy cheeked maidens who sighed wistfully with moist eyes as they listened longingly to the sweet tunes being strummed forth by dextrous fingers on Jon Snow’s harp.

 

Varys almost felt as if someone had punched him in the chest as he first laid eyes on the boy he had last seen nine years past. The resemblance to his dead father was  _ uncanny _ . A less learned man, would say how the boy was a Stark through and through, but never had a Stark had such deep indigo eyes, glistening like amethysts underneath a curtain of long raven tresses. The boy’s hair may have the colour of his mother, but those fine tresses were as valyrian as they could get. The fine nose and arched brows were as similar as the dead boy’s father that Varys wouldn’t be surprised if someone said that the boy had cut them off to put them on his own face, and yet, no one questioned that the boy belonged to Eddard.

 

It was understandable he supposed. Even to the many who should have questioned it, Eddar Stark’s honour was without question, sake for fathering his bastard. And those who mentioned the boy’s fine features would invariably recall the breathtaking beauty of the boy’s rumoured mother Ashara. And last, to admit, even if just to themselves that the boy was not Eddard Stark’s son, would mean to admit to themselves that the whole war, all their dead friends had all been for a lie. When faced with such a choice, Varys understood perfectly why men would rather live in blissful ignorance of the truth, never questioning, and perfectly content that their cause had been just.

 

“A wonderful performance,” Varys said joyously as he wiped a fake tear from the corner of his eye the moment Jon sang the last words and strummed the last tunes of ‘Jenny’s Song’. “I heard rumours of your splendid talents with the harp young Master Snow when I visited White Harbour, but rumours it seem doesn’t do you justice.”

 

‘ _There it is,’_ Varys thought as a dark shadow seemed to cross Snow’s face to reveal the darkness that lurked beneath his surface. The boy for all the good qualities he had possessed a darker side. He _despised_ himself, his faith and his stepmother. Despised his nature was a better choice of words. Being a bastard, even in such a tolerant place as Dorne was never easy, and worse still for a young lad who believed in the Seven, whose greatest wish was to become a Knight of renown, to know then that he was tainted by sin and lust could not be easy, and his stepmother’s harsh glares and icy words did not make it easier on the boy.

 

“Thank you for your compliment,” the boy said courteously even as his eyes seemed to simmer like angry flames.

 

‘ _Good, you have some fire in you,’_ Varys thought. The boy would need it for the years to come.

 

“Praise should always be given to those deserving,” Varys replied as he made a great show of sitting down on one of the benches.

 

“Who might you be?” Septa Mordane, for the old woman in a Septa’s outfit could be no other asked him.

 

“ Septon Medger dear sister,” Varys answered with an ever so slight bow, hindered as he was by his bulky costume, ‘ _ how Illyrio does it I’ll never know,’ _ he thought to himself as he remembered the last time he had seen his old friend, whose corpulent form surpassed even the fake costume that Varys was currently wearing.

 

“A Septon, here?” Mordane remarked in wonder. “I was not aware  that we would be receiving another Septon brother. Septon Chayle is young but more than up to the task.”

 

Varys glanced at the young man Mordane pointed out and gave another respectful half bow. “Oh no,” he tittered. “I was journeying from Braavos when we took in at White Harbour for fresh water, and when tales reached me of the young lad wishing to be a great Knight and his talents with the harp I just had to come see for myself.” Varys paused as he withdrew a kerchief to swab away a few droplets of sweat from his brow, truly, the difference in heat inside the walls of the castle and outside was astounding, proof that Brandon Stark had been a man of vision when he built Winterfell atop its hot springs. “To tell you the truth I may yet stay for quite some time, I was on my way to Lannisport to serve in its Sept and then came this… this rebellion.”

 

“A disgrace,” Septon Chayle said sadly as he offered Varys a simple silver chalice with wine. “I hear that the Greyjoys ordered every sept on the isles torn down and their brothers and sisters drowned in the sea.”

 

“ **Chayle** ,” Mordane snapped. “Not in front of the children.”

 

“Quite alright my dear, quite alright,” Varys calmed the woman. “We all lose our wits sometimes.”

 

“ Indeed we do,” she admitted, her mouth in a thin line. “It seems we are all a bit on edge these days.”

 

“Worry not,” Varys said softly. “Good King Robert will see the Ironborn brought back into the embrace of the Seven.”

 

“My papa is fighting with the King,” one of the girls admitted, “And my cousin too,” she continued as her lip started to tremble.

 

“Ser Rodrick is a good Knight,” Jon comforted the young girl, turning her face towards his own with a hand on the cheek. “And Jory is no slouch with a sword either, you’ll see them again.”

 

The girl gazed at Jon with wide hopeful eyes, “You think so?”

 

Jon let out a rare laugh. “I know so, after all, how else am I to become a Knight?” he questioned, while puffing out his chest, causing several of the girls around to giggle, while some of the older women shared amused and knowing glances, still, as soon as the girls had regained their cheer, the smile on Jon’s face died as swift as a candle in the wind.

 

“You wish you could be there lad?” Varys asked slyly as he patted the boy on the back. “Earn yourself a Knighthood by slaying a few ironborn eh?”

 

“NO,” he denied, yet Varys could see the rage lurking just beneath the surface. “Not like that...” the boy paused. “One day,” he said softly, “I’ll be a Knight, but I will earn my spurs, not gain them by blooding a few men barely better than pirates.”

 

“Quite right,” Mordane agreed. “Killing is a sin, the Seven decrees it so, even if it is sometimes necessary, it should never be done to earn a Knighthood,” the woman huffed. “It’s not right that young men are Knighted without sitting a vigil or being anointed by the seven oils,” she grumbled.

 

“Quite so,” Varys agreed, “And yet the Most Devout all agree that any Knight can make another so, and as the solemn protector of Realm and Faith the same power is bestowed upon the King.”

 

Septon Chayle nodded. “You have the right of it,” he agreed, then he turned his gaze upon the girls with a sly look on his face. “Now I might be wrong young ladies, but I believe you all have appointments with dear Septa Mordane here, as soon as Jon’s song was finished I believe.”

 

“Indeed they do,” Mordane said with a rare smile as she gestured for the girls to follow. “We have needlework to perform.”

 

Although most of the young girls expressed some reluctance, quite evident on their faces they knew enough by now to follow without complaint, with only the occasional disappointed sigh, along with a few sneaky glimpses back towards Jon who was still sitting with his harp in hand, back leant against the tree.

 

“I hope you would not mind assisting wherever possible during your stay brother?” Chayle asked Varys, “And you must introduce yourself to the Lady Stark at supper tonight.”

 

“Of course, of course,” Varys answered jovially. “But first, I have always had a fascination for fauna, could I, that is, would you mind awfully if young Snow here showed me around Winterfell and its surroundings for a few hours? I hear there are even winter roses growing freely in the wilds here.”

 

Chayle bit his lip. Technically Jon was the responsibility of Lady Stark now that her husband was gone, although in reality it was more himself and Mordane who kept the lad busy these days, what with the boy being barred from attending Maester Luwin’s lessons alongside his trueborn brother. “I suppose it would do no harm,” Chayle reasoned. “As long as you don’t wander away from sight of the Castle, would you like that Jon?”

 

Jon did actually look as if he minded that, but was obviously too polite to disagree, especially when both Chayle and Varys looked so hopeful. “I would be glad to,” Jon agreed at last as he gingerly packed his harp into it’s case and slung it across his back.

 

“The lad rarely leaves it,” Chayle admitted when he saw Varys’ questioning look. “Better not make a fuss about it.”

 

Jon knew a lot about Winterfell. Perfectly reasonable as he had grown up there. Pointing out this and that as they walked through first the Castle, and then the Winter Town. While walking outside of the castle and town Jon pointed out this or that landmark, such as the Wolfswood to the west or how with but a few hours hard ride and they’d reach one of the headwaters of the White Knife. Perhaps an hour’s walk away from Winterfell the came across five riders, clad in unassuming chain and leather, leading an additional four horses in a train behind them.

 

Varys smiled sadly at Jon who looked at him questioningly and gave a sharp nod. The nine year old boy surprised Varys. Whether he heard the swoosh of the club behind him, or deduced Varys’ intentions he could not say, but the flash of frightening rage in the boys eyes surprised Varys. The smooth way he leant away from the oncoming swing and turned around to drive a dagger into his opponent’s heart was remarkable. No boy of nine should be capable of such economy of movement. The boy moved as a man used to the struggle of war, not as a young lad still learning the ways of the sword. Before his assailant had even hit the ground, Snow had already turned and thrown his short dagger into the other man’s eye with unerring accuracy.

 

And just as sudden, whatever it was that had gripped to boy fled, the soft melancholy crept back into the young lad’s eyes, before his face suddenly twisted in horror and the boy fell to his knees and vomited on the ground. Giving the boy a last look of sympathy, Varys picked up the small wooden club his man had dropped and gave the boy a hard, precise whack to the back of the head, sending him into unconsciousness.

 

A few moments later the riders caught up with them. “Impressive,” said their leader as he stared at the two dead men.

 

“Aye, Illyrio will be most pleased with this one,” Varys agreed. “But we are short on time, leave two men to bury the bodies and then ride hard to catch up.”

 

The leader of the sellswords Illyrio had sent to Varys nodded sharply and gestured for two of his men to get to it while another tied Jon’s hands behind his back and then threw him over the saddle of one of the horses and secured him while Varys mounted another. “We’ve a hard ride before us if we wish to reach the river by nightfall.”

 

“Then lets not waste any time,” Varys said as he put his heels into his mount’s flanks. He’d prefer to shed his disguise, the bulk of the costume was both hot and hindering, but the less clues left the better.

 

“And what if word has reached White Harbour by the time we arrive to take ship?”

 

“The boy has some rather distinctive features,” Varys admitted. “Both eyes and hair, but if we shave his head chances are that we’ll get through safely, especially if we keep the boy asleep.”

 

“Hmm,” the man said as he scratched his chin. “It just might work, I assume this is why we had sweetmilk with us?”

 

Varys nodded. “I deemed it necessary. At any rate we might have a few days before word reaches White Harbour, Lady Catelyn is almost famous for her scorn of the boy, with a bit of luck she might decide to wait for a few days before calling for a search, at any rate, I do not think anyone will be too alarmed unless they find our associates.”

 

“Oh they’ll find them,” the man said with a gruff voice. “It’s only a matter of time before the hounds sniff them down, but we won’t make it easy for them.”

 

It was well into the night when they finally came across the small boat that would take them down to the tributary of the White Knife and White Harbour where they would take ship, at least the two men who had been left behind to bury the two dead ones managed to catch up with them. The horses had been unsaddled and left to run free while the saddles themselves could be sold off in White Harbour.

 

“A lot of work for a young boy,” one of the sellswords remarked as he brushed away the last few hairs from Jon Snow, having been the one to shave the boy of his long raven tresses.

 

“A young boy whom rests a great deal of responsibility and profit,” Varys said sharply while staring at the sleeping boy. Without the hair to distract he looked even more like a Targaryen, and Varys was reminded of Aegon V who was often called ‘Egg’ in his youth. And having seen a portrait of the then young prince in the Red Keep Varys had to admit that ‘blood will out’, as the saying went. Jon Snow as he looked now could have been a twin to young Prince Aegon, at the very least there was no chance that Connington and Lonmouth would think him false when he presented the boy to them, nor did he think that Illyrio’s daughter would be displeased in a few years when seeing her future husband.

 

Almost a full day later and Varys was proven right. Lady Stark had yet to send word of Jon Snow’s disappearance, which also meant that Varys’ two dead associates had yet to be found either, so it was no problem to find a ship heading for Pentos that very day, and with careful dosages they would be days past the bite and into the Narrow Sea proper…

 

 

**Brynden:**

 

Brynden bit back a groan of discomfort after he was ejected harshly yet again from his something great nephew’s mind. He was old he knew, his body should have given in years ago, and yet, much like his nephew Aemon on the Wall he held on. He had watched in despair and rage as his House was brought to the brink of extinction. Not all was lost, there was Daenerys and Viserys across the sea, yet only one attempt at trying to guide Viserys was enough.

 

He had done the very best he could to aid, to guide Aerys, and all it resulted in was to break what little sanity Aerys had left, and Viserys was already too much like his father. Angry, fearful, and arrogant to a point, a lost cause that Brynden could not influence. Daenerys was a much better choice, but again, not ideal. The girl was too soft hearted, and fearful of her brother, unless he wanted to turn her mind into mush and take over fully there was little he could do for Daenerys.

 

All that was left for him was Rhaegar’s by blow from his northern wolf maid, and Brynden was still unsure of how he felt about the boy. In some ways he saw himself in the boy, but even more he was reminded of his half brother Daemon. That was the big problem, he had during his life both loved and hated his elder half brother. Respected, admired and detested him. Daemon had been a good man once. Even after he was gifted Blackfyre or Daeron married his Dornish bride. Just why Daemon had even rebelled he doubted he would know until he finally met Daemon again in the great beyond.

 

Had it been Daemon’s all consuming love for their sister Daenerys? Or perhaps the blade their whoring fuck of a father had gifted him with. Mayhap it were the numerous Lords, hungry to escape the yoke of their Paramounts whispering in his ear or the rumours of Daeron’s own illegitimacy. Whatever the reason, it was that angry cunt Aegor that had proved the catalyst when he wed Daemon’s daughter, and war eventually followed.

 

Brynden had done many things, both in Daemon’s own rebellion, and in the following ones, many of which he regretted. Killing his own brother and his two eldest sons chief among them. The brutal trap he laid when he shed what little remained of his honour to kill Daemon’s third son who came at his own invitation under a banner of peace was even worse, but his greatest crime, the crime that had stripped all honour of him although none knew it was the murder of his aunt Naerys and her unborn child. Just days before her death she had confessed to him the truth about her and Aemon, how she had sinned against her husband and the Seven, and only that confessing the truth would forgive her.

 

What prompted her to confess, and to Brynden of all people remained a mystery, mayhap it was because of the death of her beloved Aemon a year past, or that she was finally carrying Aegon’s his own father’s only trueborn child. Whatever her reasons he knew that were his aunt to permit the truth war would follow, and so, in an effort to spare the Realm of a devastating civil war he had poisoned his own aunt. She went into early labour and died, her and his unborn brother both. Dead at his hand to spare the Realm of a war that still happened.

 

And yet again he could see the possibility of the same happening all over again. Jon Snow was everything Daemon had been, all alike down to the last non existent freckle besides the hair of course. So conflicted as he was, he chose to see the best of Daemon in the boy, not the worst, never the worst, and he spent an inordinate amount of time trying to influence the boy, and now, nine years later he had to admit that he was more successful than he had hoped.

 

The boy was strong, immensely so. Not a greenseer, the talent lay in his blood, but he had the potential to become a strong warg if he was able to so thoroughly eject even _him_ from his mind while drugged so easily. Truthfully Brynden was amazed. He had known that magic was present in any man or woman with the Blood of the Dragon, his own talents proved that, but to know how deep it all went was something else. The boy suffered horribly from a combination of Dragon Dreams that neither he nor Brynden could decipher, and then there were the flashes of memories not his own.

 

Could it be that there lay some memories of their ancestors in their blood? Brynden would scoff at the idea, but yet, had he himself not seen from inside Jon’s mind during his sleep of how he/they were seated upon the back of Balerion as the great dragon turned Harrenhal into a flaming charnel house. He and Jon both could remember with perfect clarity how Rhaenyra was fed to her dragon, had felt her pain, rage and panic as if it was her own.

 

The last flight of Daemon the Rogue Prince in the Battle over the Gods Eye had been amazing, and terrifying, from every blast of flame, snap of jaws and raking of claws until the death defying plunge towards the calm lake and the impact so strong that it shattered every bone in his body. It was hard enough to Brynden to see these flashes of memories, small, scattered and in pieces, and violent, always violent, that the boy had not gone insane and killed himself, or everyone else in an effort to make it stop spoke volumes about his character. Gritting his teeth Brynden plunged in again, he could only interact with the boy when he was asleep or unconscious, and even then it was a chore, ‘ _be strong lad,’_ he whispered, ‘ _always remember your strength, be strong,’_ he repeated in a mantra, before painfully as before he was forced out again. It was all he could do these days, a few moments only, and then pushed out, which is why he simply urged the boy to remain strong, with so little time there was naught else he could do but pray…

 

 

**AN:**

 

**Well as you can see, this turned out to be quite different than Dragon in Wolf’s clothing. Which was the whole point. For one, Jon is a bastard here instead of the incredibly convenient secret annulment/marriage that we got treated to in the show. I’ve also as you can see brought in a female Blackfyre, and I’m certain you can all guess to who that is in the books.**

 

**Now, this fic is supposed to be the rewrite of Dragon in Wolf’s clothing, and as such there will be some aspects that it has in common but you’ll just have to wait and see.**

 

**As for Jon’s dreams, I’d like to clarify for those who are unsure. Jon is not a reincarnation of anyone, the combination of the Stark blood (which may have the blood of the children of the forest for all we know), Dragon Blood (and all it entails like Dragon dreams) combined with Bloodraven rumbling about in his head when he was at his weakest during a pox that nearly killed him has messed Jon up. It has literally messed about, twisted and mutated his inborn gifts and turned them into something really traumatic. So instead of prophetic dreams, Jon dreams almost completely about moments of terrible strife for his ancestors (male and female) and only from those which he is actually descended. So while he doesn’t dream of Rhaenys or Aegon getting murdered by Clegane and Lorch, he does for instance remember being raped by Aerys (from Rhaella’s PoV) or the feel of Robert’s warhammer caving in his chest, most of these dreams he keeps secret for a very good reason.**

 

**As for other news, I’ve recently written about 5k words on Bloody Wolf, though it’s different pieces that are supposed to be ‘here or there’ in the next chapter so it isn’t completed yet, but I’ll try to work on it some more. Same for Dragon Queen, I am working on the next update, and I’m probably a good third or so into the chapter.**

 

**Until next time**

 

**Cheers**

**Daemon Belaerys.**


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: I had a disclaimer this time I promise. He promised me that he’d show up right after he was finished at this blasted wedding he was going to at the Twins... I still haven’t heard why he is delayed though.**

* * *

 

 

**Chapter 2.**

 

**Jon:**

 

Jon opened his eyes with a gasp, he had been betrayed. A Septon, a-a holy man had _betrayed_ him. There he’d been, helpful and kind, willing, if somewhat reluctantly to show him and his acolytes, Septons in training no doubt that Winterfell and the North was far more than just an empty wasteland inhabited by nothing but barbarians and he’d been clubbed over the head for it and taken to the Seven knows where.

 

The moment he thought about it was the moment his eyes widened in shock,  _where_ was he? Gazing around he felt faint. There was  _no_ place like this in all the world, he would have heard about it if it was. Wide streets of smooth black polished stone. Everywhere he turned his eyes he could see tall open topped towers with arched pavilion like roofs with gleaming golden spires. Every wall and surface was as the street. Seamless polished stone in all the colours of the rainbow while sphinxes gargoyles, dragons and all manner of creatures decorated everything, in the form of statues, or part of the very wall, not painted on top, but part of the stonework itself.

 

All of it was lit up in softly glowing red, yellow and orange hues from rivers that were not, he noted, of water but of molten rock. The very night sky itself was cast aglow by the slowly flowing rivers of lava and he could even, to his marvel glimpse dragons in the sky. Beast the size of horses all the way up to the size of castles glided majestically through the air, or rested atop the multitude of towers. At first he thought he had stepped into one of his dreams… one of his  _nightmares_ but this was nothing but wondrous, absent-mindedly he wiped away the tears that had accumulated in his eyes.  _This_ was no nightmare, no half remembered scene of pain, death and violence, or glimpse of burning infernos and beating wings, this… was  _paradise_ .

 

“Marvelous is it not?”

 

Jon spun around at the voice, the voice that was so familiar, often whispering words to him when his dreams and nights were darkest. He was greeted to the sight of a short thin man, hair and skin both pale as snow and with a single world weary red eye. Clad all in black save for a white dragon upon his chest. “Who-who are you?” Jon asked trembling, he was so confused.

 

The man gave a sad smile at Jon. “Brynden my brothers called me,” he said as he laid a comforting arm around Jon’s shoulders and started to lead him slowly through the marvelous streets. “Though most called me Bloodraven, friend and foe alike.”

 

Jon gasped. “The Brynden Bloodraven? Hand of the King? The leader of the Raven’s Teeth?”

 

“You’ve heard of me I see,” Brynden said with a small chuckle.

 

“Of course,” Jon said, excitement creeping into his voice for the first time. “You slew Daemon Blackfyre and two of his sons on the Redgrass Field.”

 

“I did,” Brynden said sadly, regret marking his face as he did. “I slew my own brother and two of my nephews, boys I once cherished, and the man who taught me to wield a sword, I became a kinslayer that day boy.”

 

Jon swallowed. “Accursed is the kinslayer,” he whispered.

 

“I’d say that is superstition,” Brynden countered. “But I wonder if there may not be some truth to it.”

 

“How are you here?” Jon asked suddenly, “And _why?_ For that matter, where _is_ here?”

 

Brynden gave him a shrew glance. “The proper question might be why are  _you_ here. I am a greenseer, capable of casting my mind and soul adrift on the eddies of time and space, you _boy_ are not capable of such?”

 

Jon gasped. “Th-there’s no such thing,” he denied. “The Seven Pointed Star-” he denials were cut short as Bloodraven’s hand landed harshly on his cheek with a smack.

 

“Speak not to _me_ of the Seven Pointed Star _boy_ ” he said venomously. “If you knew but a fraction of what I know of the Faith and what has been done in its name you’d wish death upon all who preach it.”

 

Angered, and insulted Jon stopped and crossed his arms while glaring balefully at Bloodraven.

 

“You wish the truth lad?” he asked, “Once you learn, it cannot be unlearned.”

 

Jon narrowed his eyes at the bait. “I do not believe you,” he said stubbornly.

 

Brynden threw back his head and  _laughed_ . “And if I were to tell you that the Faith is in large part responsible for the woes of the Realm? Maegor’s cruelty, the death of dragons, the near extinction of two entire species as intelligent if not more so than men? Or perhaps the utter corruption and constant struggles amongst southerners… oh no boy, the coming of the Andals and the spread of their religion has brought  _nothing_ but pain to Westeros.”

 

Jon shook his head while trying to hold back his tears, each accusation accompanied by a deluge of images that pounded at his mind like hammers. He saw with his own eyes, heard with his own ears how the High Septon and his Most Devout plotted to seat his own niece upon the Iron Throne by wedding her to Maegor while at the same time use the Grand Maester, a most devout man to poison Aenys.

 

He could feel his own mouth speak the words at a Grand Conclave containing the Most Devout and the highest Lords of the Realm as they agreed to this or that decree. With naught more than a few words, he spoke the very words and put them to paper that made people like him,  _bastards_ into creatures spawned of sin and lust,  forever tainted through no fault of their own, and  _he_ put it onto law as firm as Valyrian steel itself for naught more than three chests of gold and a pair of pretty maidens for his bed.

 

With horror, he witnessed, helpless to act as his own hand accepted a torch from a man clad in the links of the Citadel and lowered it to a small green puddle in the dark of the night. The wildfire, for what else could it be? Ignited and raced towards an opulent palace, seconds later a detonation of heat and flame tore much of the Palace into rubble, while hungry flames started to consume everything inside, just moment before he had been one of the seven Septons inside, praying over seven dragon eggs while the Royal family was in attendance, what was worse, he could feel the anger, the sheer  _fury_ and disappointment that the highly pregnant Princess Rhaella and her husband Aerys had not been in attendance when the fire broke out, having left for safety mere moments before to deliver her babe.

 

On and on Bloodraven bombarded him, tearing away his walls, stripping him of everything he had held dear and noble. “Please,” he begged as he rocked back and forth on his knees, hands holding onto his head. “No more, no more I beg of you.”

 

Blessedly the Bloodraven seemed to realize he had gone too far and stopped, kneeling down he cradled Jon to him, and for all that Jon absolutely  _hated_ the man now, he latched onto him like a dying man, his form heaving as he sobbed. “I am sorry child,” Brynden whispered, “But you needed to know, to  _understand_ .”

 

“ _Why?_ ” Jon whispered, his voice cracking with pain. “So you can _survive_ , you are perhaps the last hope of our House, the last hope to bring order to Westeros, to prepare it all for what is coming.”

 

“What?” Jon asked, “I don’t understand.”

 

“The Long Night is coming,” Brynden said, pushing Jon away so that he could look him in the eye. Jon had _never_ seen such a serious look in his entire life. “It may come today, or a year, ten years of mayhap a hundred from now,” Brynden admitted. “But the Long Night is approaching, and it will be here soon, if not in your lifetime then in your sons or grandsons.”

 

“But why _me_?”

 

Brynden gave a pained smile. “Because you are the best hope, of what is left of our House.”

 

Jon whimpered, “So its t-true?” he asked, his eyes red and puffy. “I had hoped you know, that it was just nightmares… but I saw her,” Jon hiccuped. “I saw m-my own mother die,  I saw how my father… died too.” Jon’s eyes were glassy, his mind a thousand leagues away. “When I close my eyes I can feel it,” he said as his right hand drifted up to the centre of his chest. “Right here,” he tapped his chest twice, “right here is where Robert’s hammer took my father’s life, it’s over two years since I had the dream… vision, and I can still remember the pain, the panic as his life ebbed away.”

 

“I know lad,” Brynden said as he softly stroked Jon’s hair. “And I’m sorry, so sorry. If I could take it all back I would, but it is too late now,” he closed his red eye and gave a long sigh, seemingly aging a hundred years before Jon’s eyes. “Mine is the fault of why you see these things, when you lay dying from the pox I tried to save you… to keep you strong, all I did it seems was to unlatch your gifts.” Now it was Brynden whose gaze was far away. “Given time you would have come into them on your own, you would have learnt to control them, if they had ever awakened at all, and now, all thanks to me they are running wild, and you are alone and helpless to control them.”

 

“I have help,” Jon admitted after a moment of thought. The admission had chased away his despair, and once more he could feel his rage, like furious dragonfire course through him, revitalizing him. “For all you’ve done… your words, I hear them every night I dream, they keep me going **be strong** you tell me, **remember your strength…** those words have kept my sanity.”

 

“No more Jon,” Bloodraven said. “You have such tremendous strength, only now, as you lay in a cabin on some ship, almost comatose from sweetmilk am I able to speak to you properly… face to face as it were. If you are to learn to control this gift you **must** be stronger, you **must** learn control, I cannot aid you forever, another is already in need of my protection, his talents greater than mine ever were, and yet so unfocused due to his age, it is all I can to keep his dreams safe, I cannot continue with both you and him.”

 

Jon searched Bloodraven’s face, he wanted to kill him, he truly did. But as much as he disliked him, for all he had done to him, he saw the regret, the desire to right the situation. “How?” Jon asked through gritted teeth. “How will I do this?”

 

“It will be painful,” Bloodraven admitted as Jon gave a contemptuous snort. “In order to truly learn control you must accept what you are, cast aside any notions of faith helping you. The things you have seen, the gifts you know you have, you cannot deny them any longer. They are part of you. All the pain and death you’ve seen in your dreams, the hound whose mind you inhabited when it killed a rabbit. It was **you**. You did those things.”

 

Jon shook his head. “I’m just a bastard,” Jon disagreed, “I  **never** burned people alive inside their castle.”

 

“Ah yes, Harrenhal,” Brynden said drily. “Did you not speak the words with your own mouth as you unleashed Balerion’s fires on flesh and stone?”

 

“Well yes but,”

 

“No buts,” Brynden said. “You saw it with your own eyes, **you** were the one who did it in the first place.” Brynden shook his head. “I’ve not seen the like before, you are not a greenseer boy, you can not consciously skim through the history of the world, nor do you have true dragon dreams, the measly flashes you’ve seen are too vague for that… you are something else, and it is only by embracing what you see, what you learn that you can master this gift.”

 

Brynden smiled sadly at Jon. “I know it is painful lad,” he said as he watched despair battle with rage on Jon’s face. “ But the sooner you accept these dreams and visions, the sooner you make them your own, the better. Every night you dream, your mind strengthens, have the dreams and visions not become clearer?” Jon nodded. “And do they not also occur much more rarely?” Again Jon nodded.

 

“Then you are already progressing. But a year ago I could enter your mind and search through your deepest and darkest of secrets, not I can barely whisper a few words before you push me out.”

 

“Any other...advice?” Jon asked sarcastically, as if he wasn’t already trying to constantly sort through what he saw, and forget it for that matter.

 

“Perhaps...” Brynden said slowly. “A technique used by the old Dragonlords called the flame and void,” Brynden said. “Imagine a void and a single flame, and _feed_ it. All your thoughts and doubts, hopes and dreams, pain and joy, feed it all to the flame.”

 

Jon raised an elegant eyebrow.

 

“Don’t look at me like that lad,” Brynden huffed, “If you require proof as to its effectiveness, you need but take another look around to see what the flame and void enabled the Dragonlords to do.”

 

Jon did so, it was still night, and they were still inside the large city. What few inhabitants out at this time of night, all of them dressed in fine silks, with purple eyes and long manes of gold or silver hair, and none of them saw either Jon or Brynden, one even walked right through Jon as if he wasn’t even there. “Is this truly Valyria?” Jon asked.

 

“Aye,” Brynden said. “I’ve visited this place more often than I can count, the birthplace of our ancestors. We were the greatest civilization in the entire history of the world once, and yet our greatness led to our ruin. We warred, and eventually conquered the Ghizcari and when we did, we took their vile practice of slavery with them… but even the Ghiscari I think would have been horrified as to the depth of cruelty and depravity we forced our slaves to.”

 

“The Doom was our punishment lad, it almost broke us beyond repair, but it’s not too late, Valyria can be reborn, or rather, Valyria as it should have been can be forged into being. It will require pain, hard work and sacrifice, and you are the best chance.”

 

Jon shook his head, “I’m still a bastard,” he protested. “A bastard with no name, armies or dragons, and yet you want me to rebuild Valyria? A shattered wasteland AND stop the Long Night while I am at it?”

 

Brynden let out a hollow laugh. “Your claim to the Iron Throne or even Valyria is as strong as the claims of Daenerys or Viserys Targaryen across the sea.”

 

Jon blinked. “What?”

 

“Did you ever hear the tale of how Aemon the Dragonknight defended Queen Naerys’ honour when she was confronted about her infidelity?” Jon nodded, of course he’d heard the tale. There wasn’t a boy in the Seven Kingdoms who hadn’t heard the tale, none who wanted to become a great Knight or warrior at any rate. “And if I were to tell you that the charges were true?” Brynden said, “she confessed it to me shortly before she died you know,” Brynden said hollowly, “how Daeron and Daenerys were her children by Ser Aemon.”

 

Jon gaped, “But if that were true...”

 

“Then every Targaryen spawned from her line has no legal right to even call themselves a Targaryen. I hid the truth, foolishly believing that a war could be averted, and yet a few years later my brother Daemon, who was by all rights the true heir to the Throne the moment our father legitimized him was pushed into rebellion after all.”

 

“How can you be so sure?” Jon asked. 

 

“History might not remember my brother fondly,” Brynden said. “But you must remember, he was my brother, long before his rebellion, and as history is written by the victor, seldom is the victor kind to his defeated foe when the tales are written down.”

 

“But, to take the Iron Throne...” Jon paused, try as he might he could not help himself a brief moment of indulgence as he pictured himself sitting on a giant throne made of swords, for once it was _him_ who gave the orders, who decided how things should be.

 

“You can see it can’t you? Even here, right in front of me, after all you seen and heard, you _want_ it. And why shouldn’t you take it?” Brynden spoke harshly. “Robert Baratheon took the Throne by climbing over the bodies of young children, and he rewarded the man who ordered the deed by taking Tywin Lannister’s daughter to wife. Across the sea Viserys begs, pleads and curses, without talent, or the will to gain it through hard work to even attempt to regain the Throne. Daenerys… a sweet girl with a good heart, yet she will falter. Each and every time she must make the _truly_ hard decisions she will falter. You have as much right to the throne as any whoreson from Flea Bottom.”

 

“But why should I even attempt it then?” Jon countered angrily.

 

“Because there is one right that sits above all others,” Brynden shot back. “The right of **might.** ” Fire burned in Brynden’s sole eye. “Did our ancestor Aegon take flight on his dragon’s to conquer Westeros because he had any right to it? No. He did because he could, you can do the same. You can fight for the Throne because it is your Gods given right to fight for anything you want in life.”

 

“Perhaps you don’t want to, but at the same time you do. You can tell yourself that Robert is a better King than Aerys, but at the same time, why should **you** bend the knee to some King who spend his time doing naught else but fucking boars and hunting whores, or however the saying goes.” Brynden grasped Jon’s shoulder in a tight grip. “Put aside the bastard Jon Snow, and become the King you have the potential to be, become the man, who, with the right partner can change the very world we live in...”

 

Jon blinked at the sudden darkness, and the throbbing pain at the back of his head. His body felt heavy and sluggish and it was an effort just to reach his arm back to feel the hefty bump at the back of his head. Shaking his head to try and get rid of the sudden haze he found himself in he felt his stomach lurch and soon he was bent over and vomiting messily onto the floor.

 

“You are awake I see.”

 

_That voice!_ It was of course the voice of the Septon who had attacked him, for that matter, he was on a ship, not in Valyria as it was during its golden age. “ **You** ” Jon snarled as intimidatingly his nine year old voice could manage, which considering how sick he felt at the moment must not be intimidating at all.

 

“I apologize for the manner in which I took you,” he said, his voice far more effeminate than the voice Jon had heard in Winterfell, for that matter the man himself was very much changed as well. While still plump, his previous size was almost twice his current one, and the beard he had once sported was missing, as was his hair if one were to go by hairless dome on his head, for that matter, where was his own hair? Jon raked his hand over his head, and feeling nothing but smooth skin he glared twice as harsh at the plump man.

 

“Ah yes,” he said as if he had just remembered that he or one of his men had shaved Jon as bald as an eggshell. “your hair is quite distinctive, even if the colour itself is not too rare in the North, it had to go I’m afraid.”

 

“It’s strange,” Jon grumbled. “Every time you open your mouth I’m more and more tempted to look for a sword.”

 

“And a sword you’ll have one day my lad, but not today.” He studied Jon closely, as if trying to decipher the glint in Jon’s eyes. Angry and stubborn as he was, Jon knew that in his current situation it was far better to think with a clear head and with some effort he reigned in his temper. The man was pleased if anything else, if Jon interpreted the look on the man’s face.

 

“Who are you?” Jon asked.

 

“I’m Varys, the King’s spymaster.”

 

Jon felt sweat break out, and his body tensed, he was under no illusion about what would happen to him if King Robert knew the truth, Robert’s hatred of Targaryens was well known. “And why have you taken me? With force and deception I might add.”

 

“To save your life,” Varys replied. “You’re in danger, grave danger,” Varys leant back in the chair he was seated in. “I remember it as if it was only yesterday that you was brought to King’s Landing, along with the body of Lyanna Stark. I was the only one to see the truth then, but how much longer?”

 

“The truth that I am the bastard of Rhaegar Targaryen I assume?”

 

Varys smiled and gave Jon an impressed nod. “How long have you known?” he asked curiously.

 

Jon shrugged and decide to give a little information. “It seems as if I’ve always known, how Lord Stark never called me his son, my talent with the harp.”

 

“Yes,” Varys agreed. “Just one of many things about you that makes people talk, it’s not so bad now, but in a few years, the elder you get the more you are liable to look like your sire I’m afraid, and while not many in the North would remember or even know how Rhaegar looked when he was at your age,” Varys shrugged helplessly, “Were you to come to court I’d give you ten minutes at most before the King would have you before him with his hands around your neck, twenty minutes perhaps, if the number of courtiers and petitioners was especially numerous at the time.”

 

“And so you’ve decided to spare me out of the ‘goodness’ of your heart is that correct?”

 

Varys tittered. “You’re smart boy, you tell me?”

 

Jon stared at the man, trying in vain to decipher anything about him but to no avail. “No doubt you have something in mind for me.”

 

“I do,” Varys nodded. “I was the one who spirited Daenerys and Viserys away to safety, just as I am the one who protect them even now.”

 

“To what end?” Jon asked, “Surely you cannot mean to put them back on the Throne?”

 

“Oh?” Varys asked. “What makes you say that?”

 

“Because… you would already have done it, wouldn’t you?”

 

“Oh my lad,” Varys laughed. “I am afraid you overestimate my reach. I am no more able to place Viserys on the Throne than I am to depose Robert, but by keeping Viserys and Daenerys alive, the Realm has an alternative should _something_ happen.”

 

“I don’t believe you,” Jon said sharply, even if he knew that he should hold his tongue. “If that was all you wouldn’t need me, I’m just a bastard…”

 

There was no mistaking it now, Varys  _was_ impressed. “You’re quite right Jon Snow,” he admitted at last. “There is quite a bit more behind it all.”

 

“I’ll never return will I?” Jon asked sadly as he tried to keep his eyes dry, even as much as he wanted to deny it he knew Varys was right. He was looking, and acting far less like a Stark of the North every day, and it was only a matter of time before someone figured out the truth.

 

“Who knows what will happen in the future Jon Snow,” Varys said. “But I will say this, I will look after you. I have arranged for a good friend to take you in, and good teachers for you, teachers who knew your father, and my friend has quite the large home, and also has a daughter your age I believe, so you shan’t lack for company either.”

 

“I-I thank you Lord Varys,” Jon said, his voice trembling. “But I am still a hostage to you, you are taking me against my will, to a place where I’ll be looked after by grown men, a large space to roam and men friendly to my father, but still a gilded cage with jailors, and you won’t even tell my the real reason why you want me.”

 

Varys patted Jon on his hand. “Give me… two years Jon,” Varys said at last. “Do this for me, stay with my friend for the next two years, learn what you can, and then… you and I shall talk once more, and if what I offer then is not to your liking, I shall let you walk free that very day.”

 

Jon looked closely at Varys for any sign of deceit before finally taking his outstretched hand for a good shake. “Two years Lord Varys, and then we’ll see.”

* * *

 

 

** Eddard: **

 

Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North stood in silence before Lyanna’s statue in the crypts below Winterfell. His shoulders shook as he contemplated the possible fate of Lyanna’s only son, the last piece of her left in the world that he had sworn to protect even as she lay dying. Earlier that very night he had burned Jon’s clothes that had been left behind, in lieu of an actual body to burn. Robb and Sansa were heartbroken, while Arya and Bran were still too young to understand why their father and older siblings were crying, even Cat, who had quite understandably never cared for the boy was broken up about it, and Ned knew that in some ways she blamed herself.

 

Not that he blamed her at all, nor Septa Mordane or Septon Chayle. How were they to know that someone would come into Winterfell dressed as a Septon of all things and abscond with a bastard boy? When Jon had not returned for supper Cat had quite correctly assumed that the boy had chosen to either eat in the kitchen or the solitude of his own rooms, it was only the next morning when prompted by Septa Mordane that they realized that Jon had never made it back at all. 

 

Though he wished dearly that Jon had been found he had nothing but pride and admiration for Cat’s handling of the situation. A dozen riders with hounds had been sent out in all directions, and ravens sent to every keep in the North as well as a few sent to the Riverlands, such as the twins or Riverrun, but to no avail. After almost a day’s search the dagger Jon had been gifted with on his seventh nameday had been found half trampled into the ground, thick with dried blood, closer search of the area had discovered two cleverly hidden graves, the turned soil hidden by rocks, the two men being the acolytes in training to the false Septon according to Septon Chayle. If nothing else Ned was proud that Jon had apparently managed to overcome two of his assailants, all the same, he’d rather have Jon back with him than Gods know where.

 

In truth, and he was almost disgusted with himself, he hoped that Jon was dead, the other alternatives were too horrible to imagine. Had he been taken and sold into slavery? Or worse still, had someone discovered the true nature of his parentage and intended to use him for their own devious means? He knew that none loyal to Robert was behind Jon’s abduction, had it been Ned wouldn’t even have received a raven, Robert himself would be marching on the North with every man he could muster to to bring Ned to heel.  Instead Robert had sent him home the moment word reached him in the south, while a shy week later Ned was given custody of Theon Greyjoy who had been escorted north by Greatjon Umber after Pyke fell and Balon bent the knee.

 

Ned had sent out whatever ravens he could, while and uncharacteristically somber Robert had lived up to his promise and ordered every Raven in King’s Landing, Casterly Rock and Highgarden sent out as well and offered a reward of ten thousand Gold Dragons for whoever could find Jon alive or dead, but with three weeks gone and not a word or letter asking for ransom or favours Ned had declared the boy dead. Oh he hadn’t rescinded his own offer either, five thousand Dragons to whomever could produce Jon, but he had given up hope. Neither hide nor hair of Jon was found anywhere, and as much as Ned would like to drop everything until Jon was found he was the Warden of the North, and four other children as well to care for.

 

So a ceremony had been held in Jon’s honour, with a surprising turnout of people coming to wish the young boy farewell and offer their sympathies. The turnout from Winterfell and Wintertown weren’t unexpected. Despite his bastardy Jon had been well liked, particularly among the young girls whom he often charmed with his harp, but a fair few Lords had arrived as well, such as Wyman Manderly, Medger Cerwyn, Galbart Glover, and lastly Rickard Karstark along with his sons and daughter on account of the blood they shared, no matter how far back. Ned had been grateful and honoured, even if it was a poor balm.

 

“I’m sorry Lya,” he whispered to Lya’s statue before turning his back on it. He would commission a small statue of Jon and place it beside her, a poor repayment for the vow he had failed to uphold, but Jon was a Stark, regardless of who his father was and would have a place beside the woman who had loved him since she first felt him quickening in her womb.

 

* * *

****

 

** Daenyra Blackfyre: **

 

Daenyra smiled triumphantly as she starred at the arrow she had placed neatly in the centre of the target fifty paces away, seated not too far away under a large pavilion was her father Illyrio who was clapping with his large hands. “Bravo my dear,” he said as he rose from his chair with a groan, his corpulent form being a chore as always. “I see the money I spent on your tutor has been well spent.”

 

“Girl is gifted with bow,” her tutor said in broken common. Her tutor was a large Dothraki, well over six feet tall, and had it not been for the leg he lost he liked to boast that he would be a great Khal by now, sadly, he had lost his right leg in some battle and fallen from his horse, the shame he said was so great that he could never again show himself among his own kind and he’d settled down in Pentos, earning his keep by teaching the children of rich merchants how to fire a bow, and Daenyra was a diligent student.

 

“Blood will out,” ‘Nyra said with a grin. Her father may be fat as a horse, but she had seen statues and portraits of him when he was in his youth, and he would have put any Khal to shame with his body then, and his talent with a blade had been so impressive that no less than three different First Swords of Braavos owed their skill to his tutoring.

 

“Just so,” Illyrio said with a smile as he hefted a large pouch of gold and turned it over to Jaggo, her Dothraki teacher. “I thank you horsemaster for your time, gold as promised.”

 

The old former bloodrider gave a sharp grunt of thanks and limped away, escorted by one of Illyrio’s serfs, the ‘clunk’ ‘clunk’ of his peg leg hitting the paved path of the garden disappearing into the distance.

 

“You seem to have taken a liking to the bow my sweet,” Illyrio said while smiling as wide as his jowls would allow.

 

‘Nyra beamed. “I like it very much father, it’s challenging, but well worth it for the feeling of satisfaction of watching your hard work pay off when the arrow strikes the centre.”

 

“Just so,” he agreed. “Why I remember when I was young, I participated in an archery competition in Myr,” he stroked his oiled beard with one of his large hands. “I acquitted myself well but the winners, now they were a sight to see. A man who would one day become a Prince in the Summer Isles with his bow of Goldenheart and two young Tigers wanting to see the world with their Dragonbone bows. I never thought to see such a performance, and doubt I’ll ever see it’s like again.”

 

‘Nyra almost started bouncing on her feet, knowing that her father was stalling on purpose. “Well?” she asked impatiently, finally giving way for her curiosity.

 

Illyrio laughed. “The last shot was on a target four hundred and sixty yards in the distance, do you know what skill it takes to make such a shot?” he asked ‘Nyra who was gazing at him with wide eyes, the distance and difficulty of such a shot completely unthinkable to her. “In the end it was the Summer Islander who won, beating out one of the Tigers by three measly inches.”

 

“What about the last one?” ‘Nyra asked impatiently.

 

“Oh him,” Illyrio chuckled before his grin reduced slightly. “The man coughed just as he released the arrow. If you’ve ever wondered at the strength of a Dragonbone bow, know this. His arrow killed and armoured Knight almost five hundred yards away, the arrow itself punching out of the backplate.”

 

‘Nyra gasped, “I want one,” she said immediately, the thought of owning such a bow, why she’d probably be the first woman in history.

 

Illyrio chuckled. “You have years more of training before you are capable of handling such a bow my dear, but if you are good and practice every day, I see no reason why you should not have one some day, but however much you like the bow, it will not go out over your other lessons, if you start to fall behind I’ll have no choice but to forbid you.”

 

‘Nyra crossed her arms grumpily, always with the damn lessons. “What will I study now father,” she asked, her tone the very image of courtesy, while her posture was rather the opposite.

 

“We’ll be receiving a guest soon who is to stay here for the foreseeable future. He’s quite the gifted harpist and singer, so it is my desire that you’ll take up dancing as well as singing lessons beside.”

 

‘Nyra narrowed her eyes, she knew her father well enough to know when he was scheming, and there was no doubt about it, he had some scheme in mind with this new guest, but one thing stood out. “ _Dancing,_ ” she spoke, aghast at the very idea of suit a fruitless _silly_ pursuit, give her a horse to race or a bow to shoot and she was happy, but _dancing_ and singing, why that was even worse than learning history, languages or gods forbid _sums_. 

 

Illyrio laughed at her disgust. “There may yet come a day daughter when you thank me on your knees for having you learn to dance if what I hear of our coming guest is even close to the truth.”

 

Oh great, her father was talking about  _boys_ again. Boys were silly, always refusing her to join their games of knights, pirates or sellswords, except sometime offer her the chance to play some simpering helpless maiden, well she had sure showed them, on more than one occasion. “Boys are silly,” she said grumpily.

 

“That they may be daughter,” Illyrio said with a chuckle, “But one day you will have to wed for reasons you know quite well, and if my friend is right, then young Jon is the best candidate you can hope for. Talent, intelligent and the right blood if not name, all are things you will need in a husband to take back what belongs to you by right.”

 

“But why?” she questioned. Now don’t get her wrong, ‘Nyra wasn’t averse to becoming Queen of a great continent, but she failed to understand why her father was so invested in making her one when he knew that it would take a war to get her the throne she had a rightful claim on through her mother Serra, the only child of Maelys Blackfyre.

 

“because I promised your mother,” Illyrio said, for once not smiling or jovial, her father always got sad when her mother came up. “I promised your mother I would see your birthright restored to you, even as she was dying her last thoughts were of you, and what you deserved.”

 

‘Nyra threw her arms around her father, hugging him closely. She herself never knew her mother who died birthing her, but knew that father had loved her, truly loved her with all his heart, he had turned down the hand of several women of importance in Pentos, not caring at all for the great insult he offered their houses. “I love you papa,” she mumbled. 

 

“I know my sweet,” he said as he returned her hug. “You remind me more of her every day, like you she had no time for such ‘silly’ things such as dancing or needlepoint.”

 

‘Nyra let out an involuntary giggle. The few people who had known her mother often remarked the same when they saw her. She had her mother’s hair, long shimmering curls of silver gold, finely sculpted features and light purple, almost blue eyes, she was a testament to the fact that the Blood of Old Valyria was still strong in the line of House Blackfyre, and if the many Valyrian featured Lyseni she had seen were anything to go by, she herself was liable to turn many a man or even women’s heads in the future, although considering her father intended for her to wed she was unsure about how useful that would be, shouldn’t her husband be the only one to share her bed at any rate?

 

‘Nyra, or Daenyra as father always insisted she call herself had known since she was a girl of five that one day she would marry a Dragon Prince and become the Queen of all Westeros. And while at the time it had seemed like just another silly story or happy fantasy she had eventually been brought up properly, learning her family history, being able to name every single one of her aunts, uncles, cousins and so on and forth up to the founder of her House, Daemon Blackfyre. She learnt of the Targaryens as well, and while she knew that her mother had probably been resentful of the Targaryens her entire life, ‘Nyra was less so. She had grown up here in Pentos in her father’s large manse, what did she understand of the hardship of her mother or ancestors? And if marrying a Targaryen Prince meant that she could become the Queen of Westeros and not have to live in worry that a Targaryen would find and kill her she saw no problem with it.

 

“Do I still have to take dancing lessons?” ‘Nyra asked, hopeful that her father might change his mind.

 

“Yes daughter I’m afraid you must,” he told her sharply. Her father hated to raise his voice at her, although it was happening more often than not nowadays, her upcoming tenth nameday in a few moons being the only thing that was keeping her relatively obedient and demure these days, she didn’t want to spend her nameday locked in her room after all.

 

“When will this… Jon arrive then father?” she asked testily.

 

“If I’m not mistaken he shall be here in a few days at most.”

 

“Humph,” she snorted as she played with a lock of her that had escaped from one of her braids. “Strange name for a Prince of Dragonblood,” she admitted, Jon was just so… _common_.

 

“To tell the truth neither my friend nor I know his true name,” if his uncle ever shared it with someone we haven’t been able to find out, and by all rights he isn’t a Prince either by Westerosi standards, he is a bastard I believe.”

 

‘Nyra snorted, “As if that matters, my ancestor Daemon was a bastard too at first wasn’t he?”

 

“That he was,” Illyrio said. “A foolish custom,” Illyrio admitted. “Our own customs are much simpler I think, a man’s children by his official wife will inherit, and that’s that.”

 

‘Nyra nodded. Essos was far more free and liberal… at least in some cases, slavery, while prohibited on paper in Pentos was strictly illegal in Westeros, any man engaging in such activities earning the death penalty without questions, going so far that those caught red handed in slavery were not even permitted a Trial of Combat, another strange Westerosi custom.

 

“When will my lessons start then father?” she asked grumpily, seeing that her father was not going to budge.

 

“I have scheduled a rather skilled dancing tutor for you from tomorrow on, five days a week until she is satisfied, but for now you may do as you wish, no more lessons for today.”

 

S miling she gave her father one last hug before running off to pack away her bow and training gear, pausing only briefly to order the servants to draw her a bath in her rooms.

 

Two days later, just after her dancing lessons for the day were finished she was brought into her father’s meeting room. Sitting by the large table was a bald plump man that she had seen with her father on a few occasions and a boy roughly her age with deep amethyst eyes and shoulder length silky black hair. Man and boy both stood up and walked around the table to stop before her. “Daenyra, meet my friend Varys and our young guest for the next years Jon Snow,” her father said.

 

Varys bowed slightly, offering her a sweet smile, while Jon took her hand and bowed to place a kiss in the back. “My Lady,” he said with a small smile that didn’t quite reach his sad eyes. “Tis a pleasure to meet you,” and Daenyra gave a smile before glaring at her father for the way he chuckled at her sudden blush, it wasn’t her fault if her cheeks reddened a little, the boy was  _quite_ handsome, for a boy that was.

 

“The pleasure is mine My Lord,” she replied courteously while trying to ignore her burning cheeks.

 

“Very good, very good,” her father said. “I have some business to discuss with Varys, so why don’t you take Jon for a small trip hmm? Show him around and get to know each other yes?”

 

‘Nyra glared at him, she wanted _nothing_ more than to not be around Jon Snow at the moment, at least not until she could get a hold on herself, but what father wanted father usually got. “Of course father,” she said with a stiff smile and a tone cold enough to wither plants, “I would love to.”

 

Spinning around she almost stomped towards the door, only stopping and turning back to lookat Jon who was looking somewhat uncertain while Varys and her father were doing their best to hide knowing grins that ‘Nyra  _hated_ . “WELL!” she barked at Jon who almost jumped, “Are you coming? My  _Lord_ .”

 

With a quickly stammered ‘yes’ he followed her quickly, sadly just not quick enough for ‘Nyra not to catch the murmured ‘Theirs will be an interesting marriage I think,’ from Varys, and from her burning cheeks and the equally red ears of Jon Snow she knew that he had heard it too. For one brief moment they both looked into each other’s eyes, and she just  _knew_ that her own eyes were mirroring the panic she could see in Jon’s own purple orbs. The sudden laughter of her father broke them out of their reverie, and with red faces they both turned away and walked away, Jon following her quick steps like an obedient puppy, while she tried her best to contain her blush she couldn’t help but think ‘ _I’m going to murder father for making me go through with this,’_

 

 

** And that’s it for chapter two. I was already workin on it when I posted the first one. I’ll be gone for the next week or so, so my writing time will be somewhat lessened, but I’ll try to work more on Bloody Wolf, as well as an amusing oneshot in a somewhat similar vein as my ‘Bobby B’ one, this one dealing with some of the things I disliked about the show, and the amount of bad shit that could have occurred as a result. **

 

** Read and review **

 

** PS: If someone can help me get my hands on a few disclaimers I’d love to have them, the one for this chapter still hasn’t arrived so I’m starting to worry. **

 

** Cheers **

** Daemon Belaerys. **


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